


call this what you like

by neros_violin



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Friends With Benefits, Friendship/Love, M/M, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-15 09:12:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7216441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neros_violin/pseuds/neros_violin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geno stands at the entrance to the VIP lounge and concludes that he and Sid are going to fuck tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	call this what you like

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyalysv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyalysv/gifts).



> Written for the prompt, "a group telling a story around a table - could be team, family, a mix; could be a retelling of a specific event or a story made up as they go along." I hope this fic delivers that, before it descends into porn. I had fun with it, and I hope you do too, giftee!
> 
> Title from One Direction's "Temporary Fix" - damn you (you know who you are).
> 
> Many, many thanks to C for the beta! <3

Geno stands at the entrance to the VIP lounge and concludes that he and Sid are going to fuck tonight.

They won. Sid scored twice, once off Geno’s assist. Sid’s happy, laughing, buzzing with energy from the game and the guys, and most importantly, he’s wearing the jeans he _knows_ Geno likes, leaning across the bar to flick the bill of Flower’s cap. 

He knows Geno knows that he knows, and he knows that Geno is primed for it. When they were younger they'd both been delighted to learn that great hockey gets them both hot, and that hasn’t changed.

It’s happening.

“You’re late!” someone yells, and Geno can’t even tell who. There are so many Penguins players crammed into this little area that it feels like they’re at the rink, everybody taking the invitation to go out, keep a good win going just a little bit longer when tomorrow is an off day and they don’t hit the road for a while. They’re crowded around the long, tall bar table, refilling glasses from pitchers and grabbing at platters of nachos and wings like they’ve never eaten in their lives.

“Shut up, is traffic!” he yells back, unwinding his scarf and throwing it in the general direction the voice came from. He makes his way unerringly to Sid, leaning into his space and putting his hand lightly against the small of Sid’s back. Sid nods attentively at whoever he’s listening to - Rusty, who looks so eager and intent that it’s contagious - and presses back into Geno’s hand instantly, a signal almost as old as some of the damn rookies. It starts a simmer in low in Geno's belly, conditioned after years and years of practice.

It is _definitely_ happening.

Geno smiles and takes half a step back, leaving Sid to his disciple and surveying the snack wreckage. He just manages to snag a teriyaki wing from under Phil’s reaching fingers. “You have enough, save for me,” he says.

“First come, first served, douchebag,” Tanger says, and swipes the last three chips onto his plate, already piled high with chicken bones. He hands the plate to Phil. “Phil needs this food. He deserves it. Worked his ass off tonight, eh? Knocked that shithead Dubinsky’s ass right off the puck, what a beast!”

Phil’s eyes light up, because a compliment from Tanger is nothing to sniff at. Also, he likes to talk about hockey as much as Sid, which Geno had thought was impossible. “Fuck that guy, seriously,” he says. “He tried to take Junior’s fuckin’ head off on the corner-“

“Fuck, I saw that, right out of position to do it too, couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d done it to the fucking ref. Think they would've called it then?” 

“Garbage, man.”

“Not as garbage as Sid’s fucking goal, huh, Sid?” 

“Right off his giant ass!” Flower chimes in, and the volume suddenly goes up with a flurry of commentary on Sid’s ass from the older guys and tentative laughter from the young ones.

“A goal’s a goal,” Sid says, shrugging. A few glasses go up in cheers to that.

“That Sidney, always scoring with his ass.” This from Cole, who wiggles his eyebrows suggestively in case anyone missed the point. 

Sid shrugs again. Geno thinks Sid's probably heard every possible line about his ass over the years, most of them when Talbo was still on the team, most of them a thousand times nastier than that. 

“Let me _tell_ you about Sidney’s best ass goal,” Flower says, grinning wide. The rookies all squeeze in closer to his end of the table. 

Flower’s audience gives Geno a little bit of room to angle his body between Sid and the others, to smile down at him to see him smile back in that way that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“You have a drink yet?” Geno asks.

“Nope,” Sid says easily. “I was waiting for you.” Geno’s heart stutters a few beats before picking up at a faster pace. It doesn’t mean anything to anyone else, but to them, it’s another step toward where they’re going to end up in a few hours.

“I think shots tonight, okay?” Geno wants to see Sid’s lips wet and shiny, to watch his throat work to swallow quick and easy.

“Sure,” Sid says agreeably, as though Geno couldn’t tell him they were drinking something he hated, like malt scotch, something smoky and dry, and have him do it. Which is exactly why Geno will get him only the things Sid really enjoys, sweet and smooth and flavourful. Sid trusts him to make the right choices for him, and Geno doesn’t like getting it wrong.

“I’ll be back,” he murmurs, delighted to see a tell-tale flush is already working its way across Sid’s cheekbones. Geno’s heart does that excited staccato again. It’s been too long since they’ve done this. A few months, when they used to do it every few weeks, too caught up in the struggles and changes around them to indulge each other. In retrospect, this seems unacceptably stupid.

He orders an assortment from the bartender, one tray for his teammates and the other just for Sid. He gets back to the sight of Tanger and Flower yelling over one another about who the Penguins had been playing the game of Sid’s best ass goal, and whether or not Tanger got the assist.

“Rangers or the Flyers, Sid-“

“It was obviously the fucking Flyers, because the whole point of the story is that he fucking crushed Giroux with that caboose before deflecting the puck off it-“

“It wasn’t Giroux, it was Callahan, what’s wrong with you-“

“Hit on the head too many times,” Cole pipes up, and Kuni slaps him in the chest, hard.

“Not funny, shithead.” Kuni looks imploringly at Sid, a clear “stop this” in his eyes. “It was your ass, Sid, who were we playing?”

Sid picks up a shot from Geno’s tray, one of the creamy ones, and takes his time throwing it back before answering. “It was Hudler, and Detroit.”

He looks up at Geno and grins madly as the carnage begins, a chorus of “no fucking ways” and “yeah, that’s right, Datsyuk scored that pretty one” and “oh, that narrows it down”. Geno leans down and speaks into Sid’s ear. “I remember,” he says. “Was Laich, in Washington.”

“Shhhhhh,” Sid says, laughing and joyful, watching the guys that they grew up with, the guys that they're showing how to grow up, weave the magic of a team in this small but important way. Geno can practically hear Sid's thoughts, his will to pull this particular group together: this is who we were, this is who we are, this is how the story changes, this is how we make it ours, unique to this moment and this group. 

“I’m never tell,” Geno promises. “But I know all your secrets.”

“Yeah, you do,” Sid says warmly, like that’s something he’s glad of. Geno can’t take it anymore, has to put movement to what he’s feeling. He wraps his arms around Sid from behind and squeezes, covering up as much of Sid’s body as he can. He feels Sid’s happy sigh against his chest, and wonders if he could fly right now. He wants to be on the ice, suddenly, just him and Sid, give and go and trick shots, and he guesses that’s almost the same thing.

Tonight was supposed to be a long game for them. A lot of teasing and anticipation, because they both like it. Getting into the mood by traveling well-worn routines, Geno buying Sid drinks, Geno making Sid dance, Geno loosening Sid up so that he can fall back into Geno’s arms and know with one hundred percent certainty that he’ll be caught.

But Geno can’t do that tonight, not with Sid so lit up. Waiting won’t feel like the good kind of torture; it will feel like a waste. He wants all of that light focused on him before it has a chance to be dimmed by time.

“I want to take you home,” Geno says, his voice rough. “Now.” 

Sid’s attention snaps from whatever story Dales is telling to Geno’s face, his neck bent awkwardly, his lips too close for Geno’s comfort and too far away for Geno’s taste.

“You- yeah, okay,” Sid agrees, and Geno realizes how tense he’d been, waiting for Sid’s answer. It’s not just because he wants to get laid, and within the next fifteen minutes; it’s because they don’t do it this way much, simple desire without any bells and whistles or fun and games, and Geno wasn’t entirely sure until this moment that Sid would want to. But Geno shouldn't have doubted Sid's adaptability; for all that he is a creature of habit, that stability gives him room to improvise, and he's very, very good at improvising. “Nobody’s paying attention, you go now, I’ll be out in five minutes,” he says. His eyes are even brighter than they were, and that makes Geno’s chest hurt in ways he’s not ready to examine, a small amount of relief and a lot smug satisfaction that Sid will step outside of routine, leave the rest of the team, acknowledge that he _wants_ too, just for Geno.

Their window is small in a room full of nosy bastards who won’t be distracted for long, but Geno can’t resist dropping a hard, grateful kiss to the top of Sid’s head before striding toward the exit. 

His hands are shaking slightly with excitement where they rest on the steering wheel, and when Sid throws open the door and throws his body into the passenger seat, laughing and telling Geno to “go go go, Tanger’s after me” he’s grateful for the hard plastic to grip on to, because they won’t steady on their own.

*

Geno can’t remember the last time he was so wound up. His hands don’t stop shaking on the drive to his house, or when he punches in his alarm code, or during the mad run up the stairs, chasing Sid and getting beat by half a length.

It gets _worse_ when Sid laughs again and strips off his shirt, dropping it on Geno’s hallway floor as his naked back disappears into the dark of Geno’s bedroom, and it spreads to everywhere when Geno follows him and gets slammed into the wall with the weight of Sid’s body, eager and running hot.

Sid’s mouth finds his, off-center for a split second, corrected with a flick of his tongue and nip of teeth on Geno’s bottom lip. Geno tilts his head down and Sid presses up and in, and it’s just right. Sid’s mouth is plush and familiar, he tastes like the shots Geno bought for him, sweet and boozy.

Geno’s hands finally, finally steady when he grips the solid meat of Sid’s hips between them, grounded.

“Mmmm,” Sid hums, licking into Geno’s mouth slowly, like he’s got all the time in the world, like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing, like he doesn’t have his thick thigh wedged right up against Geno’s hard dick, trapped and already aching.

Geno sucks on Sid’s tongue, for revenge and because he wants to hear Sid make that noise, that one, the little choked back grunt that always sounds so _surprised_. His dick throbs and Sid draws back to suck in a breath and laugh at him, again, damn it.

There’s a small amount of light coming in from the hallway, enough for Geno to see the sparkle in Sid’s eyes. “I think you need to take the edge off, G.” He drops his hand from where it’d been clenched in Geno’s hair to his crotch, squeezing firmly.

Geno gasps and bucks his hips into the pressure and tries to grab on to words. “But I- you want-“ And there’s no easy way to bring up the increasing length of his refractory period as he nears thirty, the fact that if Sid wants to get fucked, he’s got one shot at it or a hell of a wait, even when his brain is getting more oxygen than it is right now.

But Sid understands anyway. Geno feels him grin into the skin of his throat. “Why don’t you let me take care of you for a change?” he asks. His lips rub tantalizingly against Geno’s pulse point, and Geno tips his chin up, giving him more room. But Sid just keeps talking, tickling Geno’s throat with butterfly brushes of his lips. He says, “Why don’t you let me get you off?” while his fingers walk up the length of Geno’s dick to the button of his slacks. He gets Geno’s pants open with a few quick motions, sticks his hand into Geno’s underwear, his palm warm and broad against the underside of Geno’s cock. Geno groans and tries to grab Sid’s wrist, because he’s three seconds or a good squeeze away from going off, and that’s just embarrassing, but Sid starts _talking_ again. “I’ll get you off, and I’ll fuck you hard again and make you come like that.”

“Fuck,” Geno hisses, feeling his body go lax, letting Sid take more of his weight because his knees have gone hot and loose. He hasn’t bottomed for Sid or anyone in long enough that the thought of it feels almost scary in an exciting way, breathlessly new again.

“You know I’m good for it,” Sid promises, like he’s talking his way into Geno’s pants for the first time (which never happened, because Geno didn’t have to be talked into anything when it came to Sid). “Let me, I wanna put it in you, G-“

“Yeah, okay, fucking shit, Sid, shut _up_ ,” Geno pleads. He curls forward to try and minimize the contact between Sid’s hand and his cock; he does want Sid to have to put _some_ effort into it, if only for his pride.

“You sure?” Sid asks, dropping a kiss on his chin. 

“I’m sure,” Geno says, pulling Sid’s hand out of his pants and pushing down on his shoulder. Sid drops to his knees easy, licking his lips with what Geno knows is skilled anticipation; he does the same damn thing before going over the boards, and he skims Geno’s pants and underwear down his legs with similar enthusiasm. 

They both pause as Geno’s cock springs free, hanging heavy with blood and bobbing with each heartbeat. Sid meets his eyes after a moment of open admiration and some disbelief, even though it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. He opens his mouth to say something that Geno is sure is going to make both of them laugh and that’s nice, he likes to have fun with Sid and have fun with sex, but if Sid’s going to get in him, he’s going to get in Sid too. He grips the base of his cock and directs the head to Sid’s bottom lip, rubbing precome over the slightly chapped surface of it, getting it wet. The glint in Sid’s eyes shifts from amusement to intent. Geno sucks in a deep breath, watching Sid lean back on his heels, tilt his head back and open wider so Geno can guide himself inside. 

Sid lets him slide across the slick, soft surface of his tongue a few times, getting deep enough for Sid’s throat to make a soft sucking sound before Sid takes over, sealing his lips around the shaft and suckling, breathing hard through his nose. Geno likes to watch but he likes to listen, too, and in the near-dark, the sounds of Sid tugging down his own zipper, Geno’s hitched breathing, Sid’s mouth getting wetter and sloppier, squelching with spit and the precome he’s sucking out of Geno hit him sharp in the gut, a cross check to the base of his spine.

He buries his fingers in Sid’s hair and tugs. Sid gives them both one last, long suck, laving the head of Geno’s cock as he pulls off, knowing that bit of stimulation will end it. Sid closes his eyes and opens his mouth, his face already messed up and messy with tear tracks and spit trails. Geno’s balls clench and he comes hard, spurting strings of come onto Sid’s tongue and across his chin, down his neck and chest.

Geno takes a moment to breathe, and looks down. Sid’s still on his knees, still with his eyes closed, his dick hard and dark pink in the open vee of his jeans. The light hits the wetness clinging to his face and chest, and Geno is transfixed by a drop of his come making its way down the cut of Sid’s abs, dampening Sid’s pubic hair.

“Holy shit, Sid,” Geno whispers. He’s probably seen dirtier things but he can’t remember them right now. 

“Glad it was a good time,” he says, his voice unsurprisingly and gratifyingly hoarse. “But could you?” He gestures blindly at his face and chest, and Geno scrabbles to pull of his shirt, letting his knees fold the way they’ve been threatening to since Sid shoved him into the wall. Geno cleans the wet off Sid’s face with his undershirt, but leaves the rest because it looks good on him.

Once it’s safe, Sid opens eyes that are all pupil. Geno is wrung out, completely, but the expression on Sid’s face is enough that he’s looking forward to seeing if Sid can fulfill his promise. As though he can tell what Geno is thinking, Sid’s lips curl into a smile and he presses a soft kiss to the corner of Geno’s mouth. “C’mon, G, got plans for you on the bed.”

“No, I’m stay here. Broke me,” Geno proclaims, comfortable on the thick, soft rug. He flops onto his back and shuts his eyes, pretending to make loud snoring noises.

“You can’t stay there,” Sid insists, nudging Geno’s shoulder, leaning over to nuzzle his ear. “Pounding you into the floor just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

“Can’t move,” Geno says.

“You have to,” Sid says, a little bit of whine creeping into his voice, making Geno smile. Sid bumps his cock insistently against Geno’s hip. 

“Said you do the work, Sid, you work,” Geno says, eyes closed and tongue planted firmly against his bottom teeth, loving winding Sid up almost as much as Sid probably enjoys being wound. Sid heaves a big, put-open sigh and then Geno’s in the air, half slung across Sid’s shoulder, half on his hip and then Geno’s on the bed, mouth and eyes wide open while Sid pounces after him.

“Stupid!” Geno exclaims, while his dick twitches, pretty happy with Sid’s ridiculous show of strength. “You could pull something!”

“Oh my god,” Sid groans. “If I did, it’d be your fault, you’re killing me here.” He punctuates his claim by rolling his hips. His cock is so hard, not an ounce of give to it, where it drags against Geno’s mostly-soft one. The sensation makes them both moan, both of them sensitive, both of them riding the line of pleasure-pain from different sides of it.

“You feel dead,” Geno says, reaching down to squeeze Sid’s ass, feeling it work under his hand. “Always so whiny.”

“Oh my god,” Sid says again, half-laugh, half-groan. “You’re the worst, I should just fuck you until I come and leave you here to take care of the rest yourself.” Geno flushes as he imagines it, Sid being that selfish for once in his life, and Sid must see it. His eyes go darker, and he says, low and serious, “Turn over.”

Geno resists for just long enough to watch Sid’s muscles tense, like if he doesn’t turn over on his own, Sid will do it for him. Maybe next time, they’ll try that. 

He settles onto his front, and Sid gives him a pillow to prop under his chest, while he arranges another under Geno’s hips. The air of the room is cool on his back, and he can feel Sid looking at him. It goes on like that for what feels like a couple of minutes, no sounds but their breathing, nothing but Geno’s heartbeat under his skin to distract him from the vulnerability. He eventually has to move, and does the only thing he can think of to make it better, leaning in to the feeling instead of away from it. He buries his face in the pillow and spreads his legs.

Sid knees his way between them, his heat melting the tension from Geno’s muscles as he leans over Geno’s back, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck, just under his ear. “Thank you,” he says. He finds the lube without having to look for it, because Geno keeps it in the same place he did when he was nineteen, twenty two, twenty five.

Geno misses Sid’s heat when he leans back, but his hands are on Geno’s ass, fine-boned and confident. “I don’t know how your ass doesn’t get more attention,” Sid says, rubbing it like he’s feeling it for himself as much as to soothe Geno.

“Me either, is best ass,” Geno says into the pillow. “Better than yours.”

Sid laughs, a little bit breathlessly. “It really is. It’s so-“ He curls his fingers into Geno’s cheeks instead of finding the word for it, gripping hard. Geno can feel the flesh dimpling around the tips of Sid’s fingers, and the flush that had faded earlier comes back fiercely, burning from Geno’s face down his chest and into his cock. Sid’s ass is firm, and wide, a slab of solid muscle with almost no softness to it. Geno’s isn’t like that, and he doesn’t think about that much, except now, when it feels like- “It’s so _fuckable_ ,” Sid finishes, pulling his cheeks apart with one hand and sliding his lube-slicked finger in to the second knuckle with the other.

“Shit,” Geno whispers, his bones going liquid. Sid wastes no time, reading Geno’s body the way he always has, effortlessly. Geno wants the stretch, doesn’t want to get used to feeling full before feeling even fuller. Sid works up to two fingers quickly, conscientiously getting Geno wet, pushing in the lube deep and re-coating his fingers every few thrusts. Sid keeps going until Geno's thighs start to twitch, nerves going sparky as his body charges up again. 

“Are you good to go, G?” Sid asks quietly. He presses his fingers roughly into Geno with the question, and Geno moans an enthusiastic yes.

“Thank fuck,” Sid says. Geno feels the outside of Sid’s knees against the inside of his own, and then the big, blunt head of Sid's cock against his hole. Geno bites the pillow while Sid works himself inside, short, slow motions until the head pops through and one long, insistent glide after that, the sharp bones of his hips flush against the cushion of Geno’s ass. “Oh, god.”

Sid repositions his knees and sinks in deeper as he leans forward, laying his weight on top of Geno’s back. He winds his arms under Geno’s body and grips Geno’s shoulders, dropping his forehead to the top knobs of Geno’s spine. Geno is completely covered in him, held down and held open, and he’s glad for the pillow again when Sid rolls his hips.

He doesn’t have any leverage in that position, so much shorter than Geno and using the length he does have to cocoon Geno with his body, but his thighs and hips are so strong he doesn’t _need_ any. His thrusts are short but powerful, punching sounds out of Geno’s chest that get louder as Geno’s dick finally starts to get hard again, rubbing into the pillow underneath him. Geno feels like he’s getting it from both sides, Sid’s thick cock burrowed into him and his own rubbing maddeningly against the soft pillowcase. 

“You feel good,” Sid mutters, the slur in his voice the only clue that his control might be wavering. He’s gliding in and out of Geno’s hole in perfect time, at the perfect angle, like he’s fucking to a metronome, and the unrelenting uniformity of it rolls through Geno’s body. He wants to counter thrust but Sid’s weight won’t let him. He wants it faster and deeper and more but Sid’s weight won’t let him. He’s getting exactly what Sid is giving him, nothing more and nothing less.

He’s not above begging.

“Sid, Sid, please, harder,” Geno chokes out. His dick aches already, again, and the teasing pressure of the pillow is making every measured roll of Sid’s hips painfully intense.

“Shhhh, G, we’ll get there,” Sid says mildly, with a sharp bite to Geno’s shoulder blade that belies his patience, never breaking his smooth rhythm. His chest is slicking up Geno’s back with sweat, the heat between them building everywhere, but especially between Geno’s legs. He feels like his balls are going to burst, warmth and tightness as they draw up, not enough stimulation to go off but so much that it hurts. 

“I fucking hate you,” Geno manages to gasp out between devastating passes of Sid’s cock head against his prostate.

“You don’t,” Sid says, on a gasp of his own, fucking finally. “You really don’t. You fucking love me.” 

Geno laughs and shudders at the same time. “I do,” he pants. “Fuck me, I do.”

And it’s this - not the begging or the insults - that gets Sid to break. Sid’s hands are on his hips, rearranging Geno’s body so that he’s propped on his knees with his ass in the air, and Sid’s slamming into him, so deep and so _hard_. He clenches around Sid’s cock, tightening up everywhere, and he gets a hand around his dick just in time. Sid fucks him through his orgasm, and keeps fucking him, and Geno keeps coming and coming, soaking the pillow with it. He trembles when it’s over, and he’s barely got enough energy to hold himself up while Sid pulls out and finishes, streaking Geno’s ass with hot stripes and shouting with pleasure, letting go.

Sid throws the filthy pillow to the floor before Geno can collapse onto it, and Geno pats his thigh in gratitude. They’re both panting, sweaty messes, and it’s the best Geno’s felt off the ice all season.

It feels natural to reach out for Sid’s hand, and he’s not surprised to find Sid’s open palm waiting for him. He links their fingers together and squeezes, smiling up at the ceiling, content.

“Hey,” Sid says, after a few drifting moments, poking Geno’s calf with his toe. “You know I love you too, right?”

“Of course,” Geno says simply. There are few things he _knows_ anymore, as he gets older and the vines of confidence and doubt both wind around him, quietly suffocating the certainty of his youth. But his touchstones are always there, the core of who he is and what he was built on, solid and ever-strengthening. The family he was born with is one. The family he’s made here with Sid is another. 

“Good,” Sid says, rolling into Geno and tucking his head under Geno’s chin. Geno wraps his arm around him easily, feeling good about Sid’s muffled, comfortable noises and the fact that he’s the reason for them. 

Sometimes Sid wants to cuddle, and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he stays the night, and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he fucks like Geno’s a whore he’s picked up for the night, and sometimes he’s so sweet and tender that Geno can’t think of what to call it other than making love. Sometimes it’s Geno that does the wanting, and sets the terms, and Sid reads him exactly the way he did tonight, giving him what he needs without being asked, because for Sid, love is a thing you do instead of a word that you say.

But Geno’s glad he said it, anyway.

Geno kisses Sid’s hair, grateful, and closes his eyes.


End file.
